My next rude awakening came when I sat in the Social Security office knowing I didn’t belong there because only old people collect social security. But my failing memory was a dead give away that I, indeed, did belong there.

“What year were you married?” asked my interrogator.

“I think....... maybe...... 1958?

“When were you divorced?” she probed.

“Physically, or emotionally?”

She rolled her eyes. “The year.”

“I don’t really remember. Some time in the early ‘80's.

She was losing patience. “What’s your ex-husband’s date of birth?”

I stared at her blankly. “February 11, 1934, 35 or 36..........I think.”

She searched her computer for answers I didn’t have.

“Okay,” she said. “I found his birth date.”

“Really? What’s the year?”

“I’m not permitted to disclose that information,” she glowered.

She printed out the bits and pieces I’d given her along with the data she’d culled from her secret files and instructed me to read and sign it.

“Uh-oh,” I observed. “It says my ex was born in 1935. Will you get in trouble for revealing that to me?”

How about prescription drugs? My medicine cabinet is a junkie’s fantasy. On my last visit to the drug store I received a personal handshake from my pharmacist thanking me for single handedly paying his weekly salary.

Not long ago I had floor to ceiling mirrors installed on the wall next to my bed, to make the room look larger. Talk about dumb. Each morning as I roll out of bed the first thing I see is me. Let me assure you, that no matter how well rested I am, my linen creased face, electronically charged hair, and unsupported body could easily qualify me as Martha Stewart’s most challenging antique refinishing project.

When I was married the first time my husband looked at me one morning, with deep furrowed brows.

“Who are you?” he asked. “You’re not the woman I went to bed with last night.”

“Make fun of me if you like,” I said, as I headed towards my makeup kit. “In fifteen minutes I will be beautiful. But you, on the other hand, will be stuck looking as you do now, for the remainder of the day.”

Today I need bifocals and a high powered magnifying mirror to do what I use to zip through in fifteen minutes. Then I step out into the daylight and discover that my failing eyes have caused me to look like a cross between Bozo and Fanny Hill.

Growing older is not how I thought it would be. I knew it might involve glasses, white hair, false teeth and wrinkles, but I wasn’t prepared for skin tags across my midriff, unwanted hair growth in strange places, loose neck skin or height loss that has my skirts and slacks dragging on the floor.

I know I’m being morose, and I imagine this feeling will eventually pass. But it won't happen soon. My first Social Security check just arrived and it’s too damn small for me to be social or feel secure.